Remember
by Penny J. Daae-Conlon
Summary: What was done to him was monstrous, and they created a monster. But who was he really? What was he like? Before he became V, who was the man behind the mask? How does a man cease to be a man, and instead become an idea? Prequel to V for Vendetta. Movieverse. Rated T.
1. Chapter 1

**Part One: London**

**Chapter I**

_"Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered." -Cymbeline_

"Remember, remember, the fifth of November, the gunpowder, treason, and plot. I know of no reason why the gunpowder treason should ever be forgot."

These are, of course, the first lines of the Guy Fawkes Night poem, retelling the plight of Guy Fawkes as he attempted to blow up the House of Lords in 1605. Such a man could not easily have been forgotten, unless of course he was forcibly exiled from memory. Ideas like his are dangerous, they say, so they tell you not to think them. Don't speak or write of them, put them out of your head. In this way the man is forgotten. But the idea? Never. And in this way the idea survived, a tiny spark in people's minds, dormant yet somehow alive. Forbidden thoughts of revolution would on occasion come into view, soon to be shoved away again. Fear imprisoned and concealed the idea. To free it would take a miracle, an idea, and a man. But the only thing concerning this story today is the man.

"Happy birthday, Vic," James Hammond grinned, giving his friend a pat on the shoulder. "Look at you! A year ago you were a lost college graduate, scrambling to please everyone as the newest and youngest journalist for The London Times. It took the editor all his willpower not to laugh in your face when you suggested a section of the newspaper for book reviews and poetry analysis." He mimicked the stuffy, serious editor by drawing out the words as if they were infectious diseases. "But you, being the stubborn little mule you are, begged and pleaded until he gave you the spot just to shut you up. And turns out, your hole-in-the-wall section is quite a success."

Victor shrugged modestly, but the ever-present smile on his face glowed with pride. "I figure nowadays people need to read something other than the death tolls. I just want to keep the whole paper from turning into obituaries and bad news. People need to escape the world for a little while. Don't worry; once the world turns and the sun comes out again, I will once again be a useless 24 year old with nothing but useless trivia and an apartment full of books."

"I know what you mean," James sighed. "I used to enjoy my job, giving the public the truth, but now it's taking its toll on me. That's why I write books in addition to news stories. The books keep me sane, along with my family. And you, of course, are the reason why I don't tell the pompous editors what I really think of them and leave this office altogether. If not for you, Vic, I'd have quite a few more grey hairs."

The friends laughed and clinked their coffee mugs together in a toast.

Victor's section of the newspaper offered his readers a brief escape from their problems, which were far from trivial and too many to count. Britain was one of the few countries not at war, but they had had their fair share in the years prior. Where there wasn't war, there was disease, vaccine research being futile because no one would be able to afford it anyway, if there was anyone left by the time the vaccine was ready. America was plagued by both, a civil war and an outbreak of leprosy in the Midwest.

Britain was free also of disease, but what they lacked in these they made up for in riots. Some were religious, promoting repentance for sins and the apocalypse, but most were political. After Queen Elizabeth II's death, people rioted to overthrow the monarchy. Parliament, eager to quell the chaos, obliged, and replaced the position of king or queen with a High Chancellor, who would determine nearly everything in the country. The High Chancellor would be the choice of the people, Parliament hoping this would please unrelenting vox populi. However, no one had claimed or attempted to take this position, perhaps from the responsibility of dealing with the nation in its current state and the riots continued. Some rioted for the seemingly essential foods that had become rare or ridiculously expensive, such as butter or milk, while others fought for vaccines against the abundant diseases pressing in on Britain. Chaos of that magnitude is difficult to escape, making Victor's comforting, news-free words all the more popular.

"You know how to get people to like you, kid," James noted, his light brown eyes mirroring the pride in Victor's. James was a tall, lean man with dark, greying hair and an often distant, thoughtful expression. He had a clean, friendly atmosphere, and was brilliant at interviews because he was exceptionally easy to talk to. His laugh was loud and often, and he was seldom completely serious. He was a father of two and more than ten years Victor's senior, but when Victor took an internship at The London Times during college James took him on as a sort of apprentice. Victor being mature beyond his years, the two quickly became friends.

"The editor-in-chief still doesn't like me," Victor pointed out.

"That stuffed shirt doesn't like anyone," James countered. "And he's too proud to admit that you were right all along. People tend to equate success with never having to admit that they're wrong. I don't know why, but that's how it works."

"You're right, as always," Victor replied, leaning against his desk. He looked up with a start to find the predatorial hazel eyes of Joshua Webb glaring at him.

"Is there any productivity in this office whatsoever?" Webb sneered, his expression one of pure disdain. Webb was a journalist who spent as much time on the front page as possible, and made sure that everyone in the office was aware of it. He was the editor's pet, and had no problem with twisting facts if it meant writing an exciting article bound for the front page. Naturally, Victor and James would have liked nothing more than to throw him down the elevator shaft, but they resisted the urge.

James, ever charming, simply replied, "I was just wishing Victor a happy birthday. But, as you so politely reminded me, it's time I got back to work. See you later, Vic, and happy birthday." James gave Webb a sickly sweet smile and returned to his cubicle, which was a few down from Victor's.

Webb's snakelike features twisted into a grimace. His angular face would have been rodent-like if not for his cold, narrow eyes and thin mouth. Victor half expected him to hiss as he said, "Watch your back, Egan. If there are any budget cuts, you'll be the first to go. Your column's useless, even if people do like you. In today's world, no one cares about things like Shakespeare and the Shroud of Turin."

Victor shrugged nonchalantly, arms crossed. "The way I see it, people tend to prefer articles about holy fabrics over fabrications," he retorted, delighting in Webb's stung expression. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do." Victor sat in his chair and swung around to his computer, not waiting to watch Webb stalk away from his cubicle.

It was risky, of course, for Victor to make enemies with one the Times' favorite journalists, but Victor couldn't stand to be civil with him any longer. Webb's condescending attitude and constant air of superiority weren't deserving of Victor's civility.

He faced the keyboard, fingers poised and ready, but no thoughts inspired them to move. Looking at the clock, he quietly swore, knowing he only had a few hours to come up with an article so that he wouldn't have to bring his work home, _again._ He had a list of inspirational topics on his computer, but none had yet struck a chord with him. With a small grin, he considered writing an ironic editorial on writer's block, but knew that the editor wouldn't understand it. Mr. Sherman, the editor, had no qualms about calling articles 'junk' and 'garbage,' and didn't have a humorous bone in his body. Because of this, Victor was one of his least favorite journalists, but he found a way to tolerate him.

Ripping his thoughts away from Mr. Sherman, Victor reminded himself to focus, running a hand through his wavy brown hair. This nervous habit was always at work while Victor grappled with writer's block.

A knock on the door reverberated off the plain, powder grey walls of Victor's meager office, and Victor didn't hesitate to answer it.

"High Chancellor candidate Adam Sutler requested to speak with you," a stony-faced man explained, and turned before Victor had a chance to respond.

Victor shot a glance at James, who motioned for him to hurry up, and followed the man.

Adam Sutler was the only known candidate for the position, but even that didn't ensure him the job. It was the decision of the people; they would be the deciding factor on who would lead their country, and appealing to them was crucial. Sutler had so far lacked in this aspect of the running.

Victor was led to the conference room, where he had been only once or twice before. Running a hand through his dark brown hair in an attempt to look respectable, Victor put on a confident expression and entered.

Most of the space in the sizable room was taken up by a long table, at the head of which sat a slight, wrinkled man who could only be Adam Sutler. Sutler's hands were folded politely on the table, and his face smiled as if it wasn't used to the action.

Behind him, a pasty-skinned man with an expressionless face stood silently, his dark gaze fixed in a permanent glare. He resembled an overgrown penguin, his massive black trench coat sweeping the floor and beady eyes peeking out from over an overly starched collar.

"So glad you could make it, Mr. Egan," Sutler said, rising to shake Victor's hand. "My associate, Mr. Creedy, and I have some important matters to discuss with you. Have a seat."

Victor obliged, feeling extremely confused but enjoying the feeling of importance.

Sutler leaned forward and began, "As you likely well know, your section in the newspaper is quite popular. I, like you, believe that this chaos must be stopped. If I achieve the position of High Chancellor, my first priority will be to do just that. This country is in desperate need of authority. Nothing can be accomplished when people are running through the streets shouting so loudly that they cannot hear the voice of reason. If I become High Chancellor, I will make sure these riots end. If people want to argue, I will be perfectly content to listen and negotiate like civilized people instead of barbarians. Do you understand?" Sutler asked in an almost patronizing manner.

Victor, with the weight of Sutler's words occupying his mind, didn't pick up on his tone. _It does make sense,_ he thought, perching his clean-shaven chin on his fist and staring out the window above the thinning grey hair on Sutler's head.

Victor nodded, and Mr. Creedy allowed a hint of a smirk to appear on his face.

"And here is where you come in," Sutler continued, his sand-paper voice drawing Victor's attention back to the present. "I have seen how popular your writing is in these troubled times, and would like you to put in some positive words about my cause in your section. A combination of my campaign tactics and your influence will make us unbeatable."

_The potential next leader of this country wants me to help his campaign, _Victor mused, almost unable to comprehend the fact.

Sutler took Victor's hesitation as reluctance. "Of course," he quickly added, "Your contribution will not go unrewarded. As High Chancellor, I will make sure that your articles will never be on the last page of the paper again."

"Just one question," Victor puzzled. "What exactly are your campaign tactics?" Victor knew little of politics, but knew enough to at least skim the fine print before signing his life away.

"We need people to understand that they cannot simply fill the streets, yelling to the high heavens. They need to see that this is a powerful government and we won't stand for it. They have gotten away with it for so long that they will only listen to reason in two ways: your writing, and if they are afraid. I intend on using both strategies. They will be afraid of the power of our armies, which we no longer need in the field. A few armed officers should do the trick," Sutler answered.

"You don't mean to _kill_—" Victor sputtered, incredulous.

"No, no! Of course not. We only want to riots to disperse. They may be afraid at first, but eventually they will respect our power, especially with your help."

It all made sense to Victor, and the benefits were almost too wonderful to ignore. Promotions were virtually impossible for first-year workers because of seniority issues, and he could seriously use the money. After a few moments more of thought, Victor shook the hands of Sutler and Mr. Creedy, a bright smile lighting up his young, tan face. "Yes, thank you sir!"

"Smart man. We'll be in touch," Sutler complimented, straightening to his full height, which was about six inches shorter than Victor.

Mr. Creedy dismissed him with a curt nod and Victor exited the room, his feet barely touching the floor as he was lifted by the excitement bubbling in his stomach.

When he returned to his office, it was vacant. James had been replaced by a post-it note, reading, in hurried cursive, _Anniversary! I almost forgot Vivian and I have dinner reservations. That was close!_

Victor laughed, packing up his things. It was five of six, close enough to quitting time, and his fingers itched to write the words swimming in his head within the comfortable confines of his apartment. _I can't believe this is happening. James is going to be ecstatic, _Victor thought, shaking his head in disbelief.

Briefcase held loosely in his hand, he walked toward the exit, barely suppressing the smile playing on his lips.

What lacked in space in Victor's apartment was made up for in _stuff._ Mainly books.

Every nook and cranny in the three-room living area was overflowing with books, magazines, newspapers, and random odds and ends that had some sort of sentimental or historical value in Victor's eyes.

Victor settled into a dusty plaid armchair, carefully placing his forest green mug of tea on the table next to him, between the lamp and tissue box.

His hazel eyes stared intently at the blank document spread out across his laptop screen, a ready canvas.

Typing was quick and easy. The words appeared in his mind and on the page synonymously, effortlessly tying together in as convincing an article as Victor could manage. The pages flew by, and before it seemed possible it was eleven o'clock and the article was finished.

The adrenaline that emanated from writing that he was proud of kept Victor from feeling at all hungry or tired. His common sense protested, but he found the well-loved, leather-bound book at the top of one of the numerous stacks and opened it, as he had millions of times before.

Victor was enthralled with Shakespeare's plays, this, Hamlet, being his favorite. He had considered joining a community theater group, if he had had the time. For now, though, he would settle for reading the plays again and again, memorizing the best passages, and acting them out when no one was looking.

"Tis too much proved that by devotion's visage and pious action we do sugar o'er the devil himself," Victor read, relishing the sound of the familiar line.

It was these little things that Victor felt were responsible for keeping him sane; the reliable comforts that would remain unscathed by an ever-changing world.

The obnoxious beeping of the alarm clock two rooms away roused Victor from an uncomfortable sleep, contorted in the likeness of a cat on his armchair. His eyelids were heavy, and he was grateful for printing out his article at quarter to midnight the night before.

He prepared for work sluggishly, cursing Shakespeare's captivating words. "These violent delights have violent ends and in their triumph die, like fire and powder, which, as they kiss, consume," he muttered with the ghost of a smile.

After rushing through a shower, he changed into one of his well-kept dark grey suits, sleek navy blue tie, and black leather shoes. He shaved, brushed his teeth, combed his thick, mahogany hair, and deemed himself moderately presentable.

The commute to work was normal, the bus ride monotonous and the atmosphere swimming with cynical thoughts, foul words, and indoctrinated lies. A few blades of light shot down from the heavens like precious golden rain, spearing the noxious fumes of negativity in Victor's vicinity. In London, April was a rare time for sunshine; clouds were so familiar that the sky could have been the backdrop to a stage, ruffling slightly on occasion but the picture never really changing.

When Victor reached his office, James was already there, early to work as usual. He blinked often and moved quickly, a result of James' daily three morning cups of coffee. He normally justified this with, "I hate the cliché of hating mornings. I need a reason not to hate them."

"Well?" James inquired, leaning heavily on Victor's cluttered desk, his expression expectant.

"What?" Victor responded jestingly.

"Victor, I spent my whole anniversary dinner and what could have been a relaxing evening at home with my wife and kids wondering what the heck Sutler was talking to you about. Don't cross me," James warned, but there was laughter in his voice.

Victor recalled the previous day's events to James, whose brown eyes grew progressively wider over time.

When Victor was finished, James collapsed on a chair, rubbing his forehead. "Victor," James laughed, "Do you have any idea what this means?"

"Yeah, I—"

"No, I don't think you do. I mean congratulations, this is great news, but are you ready to become a politician?" James questioned, eyebrows raised.

"I'm not politician, I'm a journalist," Victor protested, unpacking his briefcase.

"Now you're both," James retorted. "Just make sure you know what you stand for. You'll be associated with everything Norsefire does."

"Norsefire?"

"Victor…" James buried his face in his hands. "Norsefire is Sutler's group, the name of his campaign. You really didn't know that? I'm not trying to be mean, I'm concerned."

"I didn't know Norsefire was the name, but I do know Sutler's plans and they make sense. I told you them just now," Victor argued.

"They do make sense, I agree, I just want you to know what you're doing." James put up his hands in a slightly defensive position. "I don't want your name written on those riot signs. You don't want to be on a hit list if there was ever a revolution."

"Which is exactly what we're trying to prevent," Victor added.

James stood and sighed, "When your mind's set on something you're as stubborn as a person can be. It's not that I don't approve, I just want you to understand what you're getting into. As your friend, I want you just to remember what I've said." James placed a hand on Victor's shoulder before departing for his own office.

_James is right,_ Victor thought. _But I think I know what I'm doing. Norsefire feels right to me._

As the coals of his anger died down, Victor cleared off a space on his desk only to occupy it with the bulk of his laptop, notebook, pens, and a few pencils.

In the daily pattern, Victor left his office to leave a memo in his boss' mailbox with the article he had written the day before, which, if approved, would be passed to the editor. He greeted everyone he passed with a smile and nod, skillfully navigating the maze of halls and obstacles.

As he passed the conference room, a deep voice escaped through the crack in the door, infiltrating the hallway.

_"What do you mean it's not fool-proof?!"_ The man was clearly trying but failing to whisper.

Victor couldn't resist stopping to listen. Through the inch of open door he glimpsed a massive black trench coat. _Creedy?_ he wondered.

"The campaign begins today. We'll use what you gave us for now. But by the end of the month we need it. It will be in your best interest for it to be ready." The ominous click of a closing cell phone was Victor's cue to get as far away as possible.

"Egan!" The voice of an angry Creedy isn't exactly music to one's ears. Or, if it was, it would be quite close to a funeral march.

Victor froze, took a deep breath, and turned.

"I'm glad I caught you. Sutler'll be here at noon. Another meeting in the conference room," Mr. Creedy reported, his demeanor again emotionless.

Once Creedy was out of sight, Victor released his breath and his heart rate began to slow. He let out a short laugh before continuing on his way.

Time progressed listlessly. As his hands typed, Victor's mind strayed. _What was Creedy talking about? Does it have to do with the meeting with Sutler?_

After a few hours researching current events and beginning potential articles, twelve chimes rang from the clock hanging on the dusk-grey office wall.

This time Sutler was joined by not only Mr. Creedy but also a female doctor with curly blonde hair and sad brown eyes. She seemed to be in her forties, and was preparing a need with a miniscule vial of transparent liquid.

"Ah, Mr. Egan, welcome!" Sutler clasped his hand warmly. "This is Dr. Diana Stanton."

Victor shook the doctor's hand. Her smile was thin and she only briefly met his gaze.

He passed Sutler a copy of his article, whose face lit up as he skimmed it. "Perfect! Mr. Egan, you are truly a good investment."

Victor beamed, but he recalled James' warning and took note of Sutler's strange choice of words.

"Now, as you know, there are a myriad of diseases banging on Britain's door. A few have managed to penetrate the borders that many politicians have thought impregnable. As High Chancellor, I know that we will have to take evasive action against this threat. We will have to close the borders. We can't take risks at this point," Sutler explained calmly.

"As a last resort, I suppose," Victor nodded, though he thought it was a shame that even healthy people wouldn't be allowed in Britain.

"Dr. Stanton has been busy researching and trying to create a vaccine for the various diseases. We have one now, but it isn't… perfect," Sutler continued. Dr. Stanton averted her gaze to the window. "We can't risk giving it to those in most need because it could have side effects if they are more susceptible to disease. However, to keep the people from going into a panic because of these viruses no one in this party can get sick. We would like you to receive this vaccine as a precaution until we can get one that works for everyone."

_There doesn't seem to be anything wrong with that,_ Victor reasoned. "Sure," he answered.

The shot was as enjoyable as any, and there were no apparent side effects.

As the short hand on the clock neared the ebony six, Victor had enough time to deliver his approved article to the editor, write two articles for his section and one on current events, and answer his ringing phone.

"Hey, James," Victor greeted, silently thankful for caller ID.

"Hey, Vic. Just wanted to make sure that there weren't any hard feelings from this morning," James responded smoothly.

"Course not," Victor smiled.

"And I thought I should check to see if that vaccine hasn't killed you yet."

"I knew that was coming," Victor laughed. "How did you know?"

"I saw the doctor and guessed. Are you feeling okay?"

"Never better."

"Good. I have to go, I'll see you tomorrow," James concluded.

"Bye." Victor snapped his phone shut with a smile, put away his supplies, and returned to his home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter II**

_"All that glitters is not gold." –__The Merchant of Venice_

St. Mary's, the London Underground, and Three Waters. An elementary school, a tube station, and a water treatment plant. Ten thousand dead.

These words dropped like rain, flooding London by any means possible: the newspaper, television, internet, talk on the street, strained explanations from parents to their children.

First was the shock, disbelief, and the eventual settling of the solemn facts. No one left their homes unless it was absolutely necessary. Then, the riots returned with a vengeance. People were drunk with panic. They hung onto every word of the news, hoping for some sort of relief. Victor's readers were more avid than ever, and he in turn introduced Sutler.

Sutler promised them peace, health, and prosperity. With Victor's coaxing and Sutler's comforting words, the country's chaos quelled. Ever so slowly, they listened, and began to succumb to Norsefire.

Resistance to the government died down; the riots didn't cease, but they decreased to four or five picket signs or the handing out of fliers in front of political buildings.

Victor began to go to work again a week after the attacks. It had become almost unbearably depressing, especially because James still hadn't returned, but Victor feared the effect stagnation would have on his troubled mind.

Victor would call James' cell-phone and house-phone multiple times daily, but no one ever answered. Victor was stricken with worry for his best friend's well-being, and checked his house often, but it always appeared empty

After a few months had passed and the pandemonium following the attacks had calmed some, Victor came into work to find an unfamiliar man sitting in his office. The man's hair was grey, and what was visible of his face, which was cradled delicately in his hands, was blotched red. His attire consisted of a wrinkled suit and leather shoes caked in mud, cracking around the toes.

"Can I help you, sir?" Victor asked warily, struggling to see the man's face.

The man looked up quickly, not having noticed Victor, and his light brown eyes triggered a frightening realization.

"James?" Victor exclaimed, rushing to his side. "I haven't seen you in weeks! What happened?"

James breathed heavily, hands shaking as he tried to compose himself.. It seemed as if he had aged twenty years in two weeks. "St. Mary's," he croaked, barely mustering the strength for a whisper. "David…" He had had prepared more to say, but his strength failed him at the mention of his son's name.

"Oh my God," Victor breathed. "James, I'm so sorry." Victor grabbed James' hand and clasped it as if his life depended on it. He knew that James' might.

Pulling a chair to his friend's side, Victor tentatively asked, "What about your wife and daughter?"

James shook his head. "They're okay," he managed. Over time, he built up enough strength to stand. "Victor," James began, putting his hand on Victor's shoulder.

It hurt Victor to look him in the eyes, to see what had become of his best friend. He was broken, dead of mind and spirit, and that severe a wound can't be healed.

"I'm never going to work in this building again," James stated flatly. "I'll never work anywhere at all connected to the government."

"What are you talking about?" Victor said, hazel eyes wide with concern.

James looked down for a second, and when his eyes returned to Victor's there was a ferocity in them Victor had never seen before. "There's something very wrong with this country. Things like this… they shouldn't happen. And they don't just happen. I know you trust the government and your new friend Sutler, but for my son's memory, I'll fight it every step of the way."

"I don't understand," Victor shook his head.

"I didn't expect you to," James replied with a sad smile. "I know you and I are alike, Vic, but deep down you're still young and naïve."

Unsure of how to respond, Victor asked, "What about your family? How will you live?"

"Vivian agrees with me. She'll help me protest. Evey will stay home. She understands."

"But what about the police?"

"Victor, I know that you're trying to stop me for my own well being, but I'll never be happy again if I just let this go without fighting it. I can't live with that on my conscience. I thought Sutler was a suspicious person, but I didn't mention it because it made you so happy to be a part of something that important. As a friend, I ask that you do the same for me."

Victor couldn't bring himself to respond. James blurred in his view as his eyes welled up. All that was unsaid was settled in one final embrace, and James left the office. Victor watched his retreating form from the doorway of his office. James turned one last time, and the two shared a wave and a smile, summing up their undying friendship.

Before Victor could succumb to the eminent wave of loneliness looming overhead, an unwelcome knock sounded on the door.

"Yeah, come in," Victor stuttered, rapidly dabbing at his eyes with a tissue.

"Mr. Egan," Sutler greeted, appearing in the door with his ever-present shadow, Mr. Creedy. "I'm glad to see you're alright. I just wanted to give you a way to reach us should you ever need to. I only recently realized that you didn't have a way." Sutler passed a small note to Victor, who closed it in his fist.

"We'll see you soon," Sutler added, leaving Victor physically and mentally exhausted with nothing to hold onto but a flimsy scrap of paper.

Victor managed to eke out the beginning of an article, but by two o'clock he felt too sick with solitude and misery to continue. He left a memo for his boss and left the office, not caring if he ever saw it again.

He decided to walk the few miles home, desperately in need of a way to clear his mind. Finally, he headed toward the supermarket, figuring that shopping was mind-numbing enough for now.

Victor scanned the aisles listlessly, every once in awhile placing an item in his dull green basket. The monotonous task did nothing to ease his troubled mind, and when he reached for a box of tea bags it slipped from his fingers.

A woman wearing a red bandana reached down and retrieved it before Victor had the chance, returning it to him with a white-toothed smile.

"Thanks," Victor said, feeling a broad smile appear on his face.

"Nowadays we could all use a smile," the woman shrugged, brushing a few strands of strawberry blonde hair behind her ear. "I'm Ruth," she introduced.

"Victor," Victor replied, shaking her hand. "Those are beautiful flowers," he noted, noticing the deep crimson bouquet in Ruth's arms.

"Scarlet Carsons. I just love the smell," Ruth said.

Victor inhaled deeply. "It does have a nice smell," he nodded. "Maybe I'll get some. They seem to be a cure for sadness, and that's always helpful."

Ruth laughed. "It was nice meeting you Victor, but these days it's better to get home as quickly as possible. Hopefully we'll meet again sometime."

"I hope so," Victor grinned. He added a bouquet of Scarlet Carsons to his basket and checked out of the store, impervious to any curious stares.

Victor reached his home as the sun had just begun to dip below the skyscraper-dotted horizon. Against his better judgment, he switched on the television and sat in his plaid armchair, the Scarlet Carsons in a vase beside him.

In the hand that wasn't rapidly flipping the channels with the remote, he held one of the flowers by its stem, absentmindedly prodding one of the thorns with his thumb.

Victor was careful to avoid the news channels; he didn't want to see any riots being forcefully put to rest. He settled on a taping of one of Sutler's speeches.

The speech began by addressing issues familiar to Victor. The closing of the borders, promises of health and prosperity in the near future. However, the tone of the speech changed as Victor picked up on things that began as subtle but soon became rather apparent. Sutler hinted at derogatory views on immigrants, Muslims, homosexuals, and most everyone except for white, British, straight, Christians. In conclusion, Sutler introduced his campaign motto, "Strength through unity, unity through faith."

Victor was speechless. _I don't stand for this!_ he thought, whipping out his cell phone and the slip of paper in his pocket.

He punched the numbers and held the phone to his ear, tapping his foot impatiently.

"Hello?" Sutler answered after a few rings.

"Sutler, it's Victor."

"Mr. Egan! How are—"

"Why didn't you tell me what you and your party stood for? I just watched one of your speeches and it sounded completely prejudiced, as if you want Britain to only consist of white, straight, Christian, British people!" Victor interrupted, no longer willing to wait through Sutler's drawn-out mantras.

"Aren't you all of those things?" Sutler asked, completely missing the point.

"Yes, I am, but that doesn't mean that I'm some hateful bigot!"

"Victor," Sutler began, his voice serious as death. "Listen to me. You'd be a fool to leave Norsefire, not when we're this close."

"I'd rather be a fool than support this bollocks. I'm not going to stand for this," Victor growled, feeling exhilarated from rage.

After a pause, Sutler asked, "So what are you going to do about it?"

"My articles gave you power. They can take it away just as easily," Victor spat, slamming the phone shut between his palms.

He snatched his laptop and immediately began constructing a new article, titled in bold print, **The New Hitler.**

Victor soon lost track of time vehemently venting his feelings into the article. It was one of his most convincing and provocative articles, and had the potential to be one of the most revered of the decade.

Just as Victor punched in the Return button, a deafening bang sounded from the kitchen, where the door out of the apartment was.

Victor closed the laptop and placed it next to the armchair, grabbing in defense the closest weapon, which happened to be a Scarlet Carson.

Before he could stand, a dozen armed officers flooded into the room, their machine guns all aimed at his head. At the back of the procession was Mr. Creedy, hands clasped behind his back, a cold smirk on his face.

"Think you're invincible, do you? Think you can just do whatever you want, don't you, Victor?" Creedy sneered.

Something hit Victor's temple and a black bag was shoved over his head, erasing what was left of his vision. The last words he heard before he succumbed to unconsciousness were, "You're wrong."


	3. Chapter 3

**Part Two: Larkhill**

**Chapter III**

_"If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction." – __Twelfth Night_

When my eyes opened, they saw a white light. _I'm dead_ was my first thought. I blinked, however, and the light remained, crushing my theory.

"Victor Egan," a voice spoke evenly. "You have been charged with treason as a political activist. How do you plead?"

Struggling to find my voice, I sputtered, "I don't… I didn't do anything…"

"Process him."

I was dragged out of the room, spots blinking in my vision. After being pulled into a blank room with a pair of doctors wearing face masks, I was forced into what looked like only an orange waste bag for clothes.

I found myself then in a room lined with disgusting dust and dirt, reeking of decay. Another white-clad doctor came at me with a razor, shaving my head as I stared at myself in the mirror ahead, trying to comprehend what was happening through the grogginess clouding my head.

With a start I realized that in my hand I still had the Scarlet Carson. _With the rush they must have forgotten to take it,_ I thought, almost smiling. It was the only thing I had left to hold onto, and I would protect it. If I didn't, I would surely go insane here, if this place was anything like I anticipated.

Two armed guards clenched my shoulders and led me through the grey, damp hallways, past cells with blood-red Roman numerals, most with white chalk Xs decorating the silver metal. The tops of my feet skidded over the uneven tiles, and I swallowed a yelp as the edges of the blocks tore my feet.

I was brought to a face-masked doctor with a needle, and I was allowed to stand as the man replaced a vial of my blood with a yellowish substance.

The guards brought me to a cell marked with a crimson V for room five. As they threw me into the dark, cramped space, I was helpless as the Scarlet Carson slipped from my fingers.

Something like that may seem trivial, but until you've been thrown into a place as despairing and hectic as this with nothing else to remind you of sanity, you can't possibly understand the importance of the rose.

I wasn't sure what they had given me, but my muscles were lead and my head felt like exploding with every pulse of my headache. And my flower was gone.

The floor was frigid, wet, and made of what felt like cobblestones. All I could see were the walls and the faint light peeking out from a crack beneath the door.

With the strength I had left, I pushed myself into a sitting position with my back against the wall.

I braced myself against whatever would happen because of the fluid they had injected into me. They had seemed rushed to deal with me, as if they were running out of time and people to test these things on. I didn't want to guess what all the white Xs stood for.

Suddenly, the tiniest sound floated in from outside the door, sounding something like a woman saying, "What's this?"

I peered through the crack beneath the door and saw a feminine hand pick up the Scarlet Carson.

"Give it to me, it's mine!" I yelled as loudly as my exhausted lungs would allow. It wasn't particularly polite, but I needed that rose. They might take my identity, my sanity, my personality, but I wanted this one little piece of the outside world.

"Why do you want it so much?" the woman asked, her voice sounding strangely familiar.

"Because I need it. It's all I have left," I answered truthfully.

A gut-wrenching pause followed; I wrung my hands, hoping against all odds that some heart would be left in someone working at what I deemed a concentration camp.

The door opened for a split second, flooding my cell with precious light. The Scarlet Carson flew into my hands, and I cried out in joy. When I looked back to the light, I glimpsed the somber face of Dr. Diana Stanton, a hint of relief gracing her face.

The night that followed was beyond the worst night of my life; it was a night of pure hell.

I vomited until I feared I would lose my very organs. My throat grew needles and I couldn't bring myself to swallow for fear of the pain. My muscles collapsed and I could barely move at all. It was hardly difficult to assume that they had injected the St. Mary's and Three Water's viruses into me, and this is what it felt like.

But that was just the beginning. Sutler had given me the partial vaccine, and it didn't agree with the viruses. Normally the vaccine would have helped to prevent the viruses ever entering the system, but when injected directly, they were forced to react.

My heart sped up until it felt like one constant rhythm, blood swelling in my fingers and making my headache unbearable. Then it slowed, draining my strength until I was sure I was going to die. _This must have been what happened to the others,_ I thought, the white Xs flashing in my mind's eye. My eyes closed, and I was convinced that they would never open again.

But they did.

When I woke, I felt light and delicate, as if moving would cause me to shatter. There was so much energy coursing through my veins that I wanted to sprint miles. That was all I felt, however. I had no strength left; I could barely push myself off the ground. But other than that, the only symptoms that remained were memories. I must have endured it for days, occasionally wishing for death, but I had survived. _But many didn't survive, _I remembered, suddenly recalling that it was I who had given Sutler enough power to torture the people he found 'undesirable,' using them to find vaccines for the diseases in Britain. _No; these prisoners aren't just for testing,_ I realized. _Sutler used them—us – to _create_ the diseases. That way he could use them to make panic and fear among the people so that they would become near-sighted and trust any sources they thought of as reliable. He made Larkhill. Or was it Creedy who devised the master plan? Probably. Sutler wouldn't have any use for someone like Creedy unless he was the brain behind the operation. And a man as smart as Creedy wouldn't take as difficult and risky a position as High Chancellor, so he found a close-minded man he could easily manipulate to take the job. Creedy could ride in luxury, whispering into Sutler's ear and reaping all the benefits of a High Chancellor. He thought it through every step of the way, _I gaped. Creedy was a cold-hearted genius, and I had allowed him to control my naïve mind. _It will never happen again,_ I promised.

I couldn't tell how long I had been unconscious, only that I had woken up at least once and I couldn't remember it. There was an empty food plate in front of the door to prove that.

The guards came an hour later. Just before I left, out of the corner of my eye I watched a water drop disengage itself from the ceiling. Without looking, I reached out and caught it as it fell. Luckily, the guards didn't notice that, nor the Scarlet Carson clutched between my fingers.

The lab was a massive, rectangular room always teeming with life. The vast majority of the doctors and guards were here everyday, while prisoners joined them on occasion.

There was a short line of prisoners, and I was the last, giving me a chance to glance around with my peripheral vision; all the other prisoners kept their heads down and I didn't want to appear conspicuous. There were a number of metal vats filled with chemicals, and waste-bins were overflowing with failed vaccines.

I was startled by a cold cloth on my arm, and looked to find Dr. Stanton preparing a vile for my arm.

It took her a second to realize it, but she raised her wide eyes to mine. "You were given the viruses weeks ago. You survived."

I nodded. "Thank you for giving me my rose, Diana," I smirked with my head bowed.

"How do you know my—" she began, but stopped when our eyes met for the second time. She gasped, her face bewildered by the recognition. "Victor… there must be some mistake," she stuttered.

"There isn't," I replied, stoic.

"You were given the old vaccine," she pondered. "That must have kept you alive. How do you feel?"

"They say pain is what proves that you're alive. Let's just say that it is quite clear I'm still living," I grimaced.

"Are there any side effects you've noticed?" she pried.

I considered not telling her, but decided against it. _They want to find a cure for the virus they created. I don't want to reward them with one, but I also don't want my pride to be the cause of death for innocent people, _I mused. "It sapped nearly all of my strength, but I feel like I can run miles. My reflexes are impeccable," I answered.

"Wondrous," she breathed, hastily scribbling on a notepad. When she was finished, she looked up in concern, "Victor, why are you in here?"

"I wanted to quit Norsefire after realizing that it was completely prejudiced. They send all the 'undesirables' here. So I threatened to speak against them in the newspapers. They called me a political activist guilty of treason," I explained.

Dr. Stanton's expression was unreadable. She stepped back, and my guards approached.

"One question, Diana," I requested. "What are they going to do to me?"

"Reform," she replied, her eyes down. "They'll torture you to try to get you to forget."

"May I ask a favor of you?" I proceeded.

She nodded hesitantly.

"Make sure they do it thoroughly. I don't want to remember Victor Egan or what he did to aid this holocaust. My ignorance will be my only treasure."

Dr. Stanton paused, taking in my strange desire, then said, "I will."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter IV**

"_Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once."-__The Tragedy of Julius Caesar_

Dr. Stanton fulfilled her promise. The Scarlet Carson wilted slowly in the corner of my cell as my memory did the same. The reaction in my blood helped immensely, making the process of losing my memory considerably quicker than it would have been.

The torture was endurable compared to the weeks I spent slowly dying and healing. That kind of pain, physical, and the emotional punishment of realizing that you've caused this kind of pain for thousands of others, made torture pale in comparison. The emotional pain receded, however. I no longer remembered who I was or why I was in Larkhill. The void was filled with the rage that had lain dormant in my heart. The flames of hate grew every time I was forced under water for minutes at a time, locked in a freezer with soulless guards dousing me with water, and put in the interrogation room and nearly blinded. I was like a phoenix, consumed by the heat only to be reborn from the ashes. Hate was all I knew, and it was what I had to live by when the Scarlet Carson had been reduced to dust.

That is, until I found a new purpose for my existence.

I had just been left in the freezer for what had felt like two hours. I collapsed on the cobblestones, as I usually did after the torture. A plate of unrecognizable guck titled food skittered against the stones, coming to a stop at my feet. I consumed a few bites, just enough to survive. After that, I occupied myself by picking ice and frost off of my limbs and attempting to warm my fingers and toes. So far I still had all of my limbs intact, but I couldn't predict how long that would last. I had become all skin and bones, my muscles nonexistent. There was no reason for them to exist, aside from the hate that I lived by, and even that had quelled.

I heard the slightest crinkle of paper next to me, followed by the footfalls of a rat. My hand shot out toward the sound, and I discovered a small hole in the wall. Inside was a scroll of paper, mold beginning to grow around the edges. I didn't know how long it had been there, but it may have laid there before I was even captured, which felt like a lifetime.

I shuffled up to the light underneath the door and unrolled the paper. The letters swam in my eyes, my reading skills having nearly depleted for lack of use, but I was soon devouring the words as if they were the greatest food in the world. In a way, they were.

_I know there's no way I can convince you this is not one of their tricks, but I don't care. I am me. My name is Valerie. I don't think I'll live much longer and I wanted to tell someone about my life. This is the only autobiography that I will ever write, and, God, I'm writing it on toilet paper._

_I was born in Nottingham in 1985. I don't remember much of those early years, but I do remember the rain. My grandmother owned a farm in Tottlebrook, and she used to tell me that God was in the rain._

_I passed my Eleven Plus and went to girl's grammar. It was at school that I met my first girlfriend. Her name was Sarah. It was her wrists. They were beautiful. I thought we would love each other forever. I remember our teacher telling us that it was an adolescent phase that people outgrew. Sarah did. I didn't._

_In 2002, I fell in love with a girl named Christina. That year I came out to my parents. I couldn't have done it without Chris holding my hand. My father wouldn't look at me. He told me to leave and never come back. My mother said nothing. But I'd only told them the truth. Was that so selfish?_

_Our integrity sells for so little, but it is all we really have. It is the very last inch of us. But within that inch, we are free._

_I'd always known what I wanted to do with my life, and in 2015 I starred in my first film, "The Salt Flats." It was the most important role of my life. Not because of my career, but because that is how I met Ruth. The first time we kissed, I knew I never wanted to kiss any other lips but hers again. We moved to a small flat in London together. She grew Scarlet Carsons for me in our window box, and our place always smelt of roses. Those were the best years of my life._

_But America's war got worse and worse, and eventually came to London. After that there were no roses anymore. Not for anyone._

_I remember how the meaning of words began to change. How unfamiliar words like "collateral" and "rendition" became frightening, while things like "Norsefire" and "Articles of Allegiance" became powerful. I remember how "different" became dangerous._

_I still don't understand it, why they hate us so much._

_They took Ruth while she was out buying food. I've never cried so hard in my life. It wasn't long till they came for me._

_It seems strange that my life should end in such a terrible place. But for three years, I had roses and apologized to no one._

_I shall die here. Every inch of me shall perish. Every inch, but one._

_An inch. It is small, and it is fragile, and it is the only thing in the world worth having. We must never lose it or give it away. We must never let them take it from us._

_I hope that, whoever you are, you escape this place. I hope that the world turns and that things get better. But what I hope most of all is that you understand what I mean when I tell you that even thought I do not know you, and even though I may never meet you, laugh with you, cry with you, or kiss you, I love you. With all my heart, I love you._

_Valerie _

(Wachowski, Wachowski)

That letter became my life, my one purpose for living. It was for Valerie, and Ruth, and a man named James whom I could no longer remember, that I began to fight back.

When the food was delivered, I forced myself to consume every last rubbery bite. It gave me the strength for the push-ups, sit-ups, crunches, jumping-jacks, and dozens of other exercises I did. I would work until I could no longer stand, then rest, eat, and continue the cycle. I needed to get strong for them, so that I could make the world turn, as Valerie had hoped.

In my mind, I could see the world outside. I knew what had happened, and what I would do if I escaped. I knew that Sutler had become the High Chancellor. I knew that my blood had helped to create a perfect vaccine, which Sutler sold after achieving this position to make all those in the Norsefire party ridiculously rich. I knew that Britain had been turned into fascism, a dictatorship, by Sutler. But above all, I knew that I was the one who needed to change it. It wasn't _if_ I escaped. I would. There were no other possibilities.

I knew what I would do when I escaped. Britain was a glass window, and the chaos had blown a stake through the center of it. The diseases and rise of Norsefire had helped the cracks race across the panel, slowly destroying Britain. It was irreparable, and the only way to cure this country was to shatter the pane completely, and start anew, as I had.

This wouldn't be easy. Others had tried and failed, the most famous being Guy Fawkes, who on November the fifth, 1609, attempted to break the pane by blowing up the Parliament building. He was caught and killed, but ideas themselves cannot die.

I, more than four centuries later, have taken up the mantel. I will finish what Guy Fawkes started, and get revenge for what Norsefire did to me, Valerie, Ruth, James, and millions more.

My plan is complete. It is time.


End file.
